My father's library at evening-time: softly lit, softly shadowed, a peaceful retreat in which to read and dream. Not the place to talk of deception and malice and death, and yet that's the business Spock and I--and Pardek--are about tonight. The half-empty bottle of brandy that sits on the table before us has done little to ease our way.
"Spock was always the key," Pardek says to me. "Sela was obsessed by the idea that he should witness the invasion of his own world. But why she ever imagined that she could force him to cooperate--" He shakes his head. "And the notion of a holographic Spock--now that was bizarre even by her standards."
"Sela's principal error," says Spock, "was in underestimating the endurance of friendship and loyalty. She thought that a bond of eighty years' duration could be broken with the offer of a few committee appointments and dinner invitations."
"She has no friends," Pardek says, "and she's loyal only to herself, so how would she know the meaning of true friendship? Or of commitment to a cause other than one's own advancement?" He takes a sip of brandy and discreetly, or at least discreetly enough, smacks his lips. "I did a good job, though, didn't I? Even Ambassador Tayva never guessed." He probably isn't aware that he's rubbing his breastbone, as if to soothe the contusion left by my disruptor.
"True enough," I agree. "And I never guessed that Ambassador Spock could be so Romulan in his ability to construct intrigues and to dissemble."
"Age and treachery will always overcome youth and enthusiasm," Pardek says cheerfully. "Neral and Sela were simply outclassed."
Spock lets that pass. "Senator Pardek has chosen a difficult path," he says to me. "He has compromised his honor. Many in both camps now see him as someone capable of betraying his oldest friend. But the few who do know his true character will trust him to bridge the gap between the underground and those in the government who espouse peace."
"Meaning he'll be an invaluable source of intelligence."
Pardek looks mildly scandalized. "You know I would never jeopardize the security of the Empire, Ambassador Tayva."
"No, of course not. I meant no offense." Who am I to second-guess his motives now--I, who have proved to be such an astute judge of character?
"I wonder what will become of Neral," Pardek says. "And of Sela."
"Neral won't be damaged by this," I say, pouring myself another glass of brandy. "He'll maintain that he acted in good faith. He'll lay all the blame on Sela, and no one will challenge him. As for Sela--she should be executed for her incompetence. She learned nothing at all from her mistakes in the Klingon war. Leaving prisoners unguarded, and with access to computers and a holoemitter--her arrogance is beyond belief."
"But her arrogance saved Spock's life," Pardek says.
"But if he hadn't allowed himself to be captured in the first place--"
"It was necessary that I establish Pardek's defection publicly and decisively," Spock says. "I regret that Picard and Data were involved, but as it happened Data was a great asset."
"And how would you have escaped from the Tal Shiar bunker without Data's help and my command codes? Do you imagine that you can journey to Mount Seleya any time you wish? That you have ten lives to lose, like a Terran cat, and ten katras to spare?"
"Nine lives," Pardek corrects. "Ambassador Tayva has a point, Spock. You must try not to take quite such a--a hands-on approach in the future." The Standard phrase pleases him, so he repeats it: "Not so much hands-on."
"I won't be given the chance," Spock says. "Our friends are insisting that I go to Remus and stay there until conditions stabilize again."
"Well," says Pardek, "you may not have to stay long. The shiar'rim may eventually come back worse than ever under Major Kalevi. But they'll be preoccupied with internal power struggles for a while, which means they'll have less time for the rest of us. We're very fortunate that Ambassador Tayva was able to get in touch with her friend Commander Toreth at the right moment."
Spock looks questioningly at me, and I recount the story of my call to Toreth. But as I describe the inevitable outcome of that call, his eyes darken with shock and pain.
"Two thousand lives," he says, and I can hear his unspoken question: Was it necessary? Was there another way?
"You said that you yourself got a message out to the Federation," I remind him. "If Khazara hadn't intercepted them, Enterprise or another ship would have, and with the same result. That would have required a response from the Romulan government. At least this way we've avoided a war."
"We owe Ambassador Tayva a debt many times over," Pardek says to Spock. "If not for her friendship with Commander Toreth, the Empire and the Federation might indeed be at war at this very moment. If she hadn't cooperated with Picard and given Data her command codes, you would never have escaped from Sela's hands. And without access to the Tal Shiar's files, we might never have known the whole truth."
Pardek's words of praise sound odd to me; I'm still having trouble thinking of him as an ally rather than an enemy. "What 'whole truth'?" I ask him. "What more is there?"
"Data found a list of names while he was searching databases," Spock says. "Yours and your friend Counselor Venn's were among them."
"Yes, I know. I found the same list. I still have to call Venn and let him know about--" Something in his expression stops me mid-sentence.
"The people named on that list were meant to travel to Vulcan a tenday after the invasion force," Pardek says. "Venn must have learned somehow what his role was to be--that he would be drafting the terms of occupation. He--his desire for vengeance on Tilendi's behalf against all of Vulcan must have led him to do what he did."
"What? What has he done?"
"Venn persuaded Stilpa that he should accompany the invasion force to Vulcan," Pardek says. "He knew that Spock would see his homeworld occupied by Romulans during the anniversary of Planetfall, and he wanted to be there."
Venn, the architect of grand gestures, choosing to claim his retribution in a particularly dramatic fashion. Honor demands it ... I'm not as shocked as I should be; I ought to have expected something like this.
"I share your sorrow," Spock says, sounding as if he means it.
"Some others are gone," says Pardek. "People Stilpa must have recruited that even I didn't know about. Luthais, Merlar, Hadrea, Reddin--"
"No, not Hadrea," I say. "That's impossible. She's a zealot of reunification--"
"She was volatile and impatient," Spock says. "Her zealotry was her undoing. Who knows how this invasion was described to her, or to any of them? They may have thought it merely an acceleration of what was surely to come--the rejoining of our worlds."
"Hadrea was obsessed with Spock too," Pardek says, "but for different reasons. For all we know, Venn may have convinced her that Spock would approve of sending a vanguard of 'peace' to Vulcan. By the time she found out the truth ..." He leaves the sentence unfinished and gets to his feet. "I must go now, my friends. My wife will be wondering where I've gotten to. We're expecting a crowd tomorrow for the festival, and we have to be up early."
Spock nods, as if he's been expecting this sudden departure. The three of us proceed to the wardroom, and Pardek approaches the transporter platform where he nearly died.
"Ambassador Tayva," he says, "I'm sure you and I will meet again." He rubs his breastbone absently. "Why, you may even decide to claim your Senate seat one day, and then we'll be true colleagues. Spock--"
To my surprise, Spock's valediction is not a Vulcan salute but a hearty Romulan embrace. "Jolan tru, my friend," he says. "Take care of yourself."
Pardek studies Spock's face, as if the sight will have to last him. "Go safely, Spock. Perhaps one day soon--"
"Soon," Spock affirms.
Pardek keys in the coordinates of his residence and hoists himself onto the platform. "Goodbye, you two," he says in Standard, "and good luck." At my touch on the console he vanishes into the night.
* * *
Where do we go from here?
Neither of us speaks the question, but it hangs between Spock and me like a curtain, dividing us one from the other. We attend to our small domestic chores in near silence, clearing away the glasses, securing the house, as if this were the normal end of a normal day.
We don't even discuss where we're going to sleep. Not alone, says the warning voice. Don't sleep alone tonight, or you may never find your way back to him. In the end, just because Spock's bed is bigger than mine, I carry my nightdress and toiletries up to his room. With a curiously formal kind of courtesy more appropriate to strangers than lovers, we take turns in the sonic shower and change into our nightclothes behind the closed door of the lavatory.
The bedroom is dark, lit only by a small safety-light near the door. Spock is standing by the open window, his back to me, looking out at the night sky. He doesn't move when I enter the room.
I know that I should be able to offer us both some kind of strategy for the future, some rationale for the past. But everything has happened so fast that I've only been able to react; there's been no time to analyze our situation, no time to make a logical plan--
Damn it! says Leonard McCoy's voice in distant memory. I don't want to hear logical! This isn't about logic! It's about your life!
Why, I wonder, should that particular truth manifest itself so clearly a hundred years after it was spoken? "Spock," I say quietly, so as not to startle him.
He half turns at the sound of his name. And then, without waiting for a sign or stopping to think, I fit myself into his arms and press my body against his. Let me in, t'hy'la, I whisper in his mind.
He opens to me with such joy and relief that my own legs go weak with it. His arms are a strong support around me, keeping me upright in his embrace.
"You should have trusted me, Spock," I say when I can find my voice. "You should have told me that Pardek was no traitor--gods of Remus, I almost killed him!"
"I made an error in judgment," Spock says, stroking my hair. "I did not anticipate that you would react so quickly to his appearance here--or so violently."
"I thought he was going to assassinate you! You should have told me!"
"I should have," he agrees. "At the beginning, when we were in the museum. But I wanted to keep you safe. As long as you appeared to be carrying out Stilpa's plan, you were in no danger. If you'd known the truth--"
"What did you fear? That I might have let it slip to someone? Who do you think you're talking to? I've kept secrets for a hundred years--"
"I made an error in judgment," he repeats. "It was not my first, Aerlyn, nor is it likely to be my last. Can you understand that, and forgive me?"
Understand, beloved. Understand and forgive me--
Having made my own share of errors in judgment, I answer him without words.
"We will find a way," he says after a while. "This time, we will find a way."
"I'm sworn to defend the Empire's interests, Spock. I can't break my oath. I won't break my oath--"
He cups my face in his hands. "I would not respect any other choice," he says with a smile.
"And reunification--Spock, I can't believe that will ever happen!"
"I know, beloved. I know."
"How will we be able to see each other? Even talk to each other?"
"Come with me to Remus," he says. "Stay for as long as you can. We'll have privacy there. We'll have time--"
"Planetfall on Remus? My parents used to take us there for the holiday when we were small ..." Vivid memories surface at the thought; through the link Spock sees a child's remembrance of fireworks, music, spun-sugar confections. "I'm officially on leave--I don't know for how long, but I've much more owed to me. But I'd have to tell Toreth something. She expects me to visit her family. Still, it might be possible--"
He takes that jumbled reply in the spirit in which it's intended. And some number of hours later, when we sink into exhausted sleep in each other's arms, we have new memories of a different kind of fireworks and music.
* * *
Morning. Planetfall festival. A trip to Remus.
Part of me feels like a child again, with a child's sense of anticipation at the prospect of a holiday adventure. But the part of me that's an adult knows that anticipation must inevitably bow before obligation. I've been working my way through all the things I have to do before Spock and I meet his contact in the market square.
My superiors at High Command have extended their best wishes for a happy holiday; they ask only that I inform Interstellar Affairs when I'm ready to return to duty. Toreth's husband has assured me that Toreth, who is on her way home from Galorndon Core as we speak, will understand my wish to get away for a while; perhaps I'll be able to visit them soon. The one remaining member of Venn's family, an ill and elderly uncle who lives on a colony world in the Janniar system, may or may not recognize my name or even know the reason for the condolences I've sent him. A new set of house-security codes is in place, the shields and stasis fields are ready to energize, and the terminal has instructions to send all incoming messages to my personal commlink until further notice.
"Have you finished packing?" Spock asks, looking up from his open traveling-bag.
"Yes. You?"
"Yes." He's been unusually quiet and pensive this morning. Not tense, not worried--just abstracted, like a mathematician working out a complex equation. So I'm not really surprised when he adds, "Before we leave, I should like to ask your opinion on a personal matter."
"What is it?" I sit down on the bed and pat the space beside me in invitation.
"Yesterday," he says, sitting down, "when we were in the cave--when Picard and I were together--" Possibly for the first time in his life, he's at a loss for words. He reaches for my hand: I need to show you.
I lift his hand to my face: Then show me, beloved.
And he does--
* * *
Was the cave this damp? We don't remember it so, but then our attention was elsewhere at the time. We feel it now, though. We're still not fully acclimatized to the pervasive humidity of this world.
Picard is here. His force of will radiates from him like an energy field. He knows what we're going to say before we say it. We say it anyway: I will not be coming with you. Picard looks ready to argue, but we're determined to get it all out before he provokes us to open anger with his opposition, his scorn, his logic: An inexorable evolution. Toward a new enlightenment. It may take decades, even centuries. I must help. There, it's out. Picard admits it's useless to argue. Now we can be magnanimous: Not at all, Captain. I have found our arguments quite useful. Almost as useful as--
Picard knows something we don't. Would it surprise you? Yes, any knowledge at all would surprise us, because Picard knows everything we don't.
My father and I never chose to meld.
Now, that wasn't so difficult. Ancient history, old pain, worn away to nothingness by reason and time. His right to choose, of course; his perfect right to meld with our mother, our brother, a new wife, even this human stranger, but never ever with us--
I offer you, says Picard. Touch what he shared.
Not forbidden, not precisely, though no Vulcan would propose such a thing in the absence of a witnessed and notarized testament. But Picard is human, and for all his cold intellect he is endowed with his species' birthright of compassion. We recognize that quality; we've experienced its healing power from the few humans who took the trouble to see beneath our surface and befriend us.
Like them, Picard would never hurt us.
His skin so cool under our fingertips. His thoughts so orderly--another surprise, for that's not the human norm. Welcome, and acceptance, and then--
A flood of images and feelings, wave after cresting wave of memory and need and sensation, overpowering our cognition. How could the human Picard possibly bear this unleashing of Vulcan emotion? That's only one of the things we'll never know. Some of what we're seeing we're not meant to know. People we've never met, strange places and other times. But one image persists above or beneath everything else: our own face--infant, child, boy, man--seen through alien eyes, though suddenly not alien to us. Here is how much he loved you, says the caretaker Picard, who must be in control of this meld, for we surely aren't. He lacked a way to show you. The emotion overwhelmed him, frightened him. He wanted to make you strong, protect you, as he had failed to do with Sybok. But he knew only one way, the Vulcan way. Look now, and learn ... What he disparaged most in you was what he honored. Look, Spock. Your pride, your passion, yes, even your human ability to see beyond logic--your strength of purpose, yes, all right, call it your stubbornness--look, Spock-- The warmth of a smile from someone, somewhere, fills the meld like sunshine. And then an emotion, at once immanent and transcendent, so powerful, so all-encompassing, so immolating of Vulcan self and judgment and caution and logic that we might have gone all our life without being able to identify it if we had never touched our t'hy'la's mind-- This is how much Sarek loved you, the caretaker repeats, as though concerned that we still might not know what we're feeling. As much as you loved him, Spock--
Spock-- No, wait. That's not my name--
"Spock!" I hold his face between my hands, keeping the link open, unwilling to separate too quickly from him.
Aerlyn--t'hy'la-- The reliving of his meld with Picard has left him shaken but in control. He takes my hands in his and presses them to his lips, and then we're two again. "Before we leave this house," he says, "I have to ask you--"
"You don't have to ask, beloved. You already know the answer."
* * *
The morning sun is just beginning to warm the cold stone floor of the sacrarium; the arc lights still cast their own faint shadows against the mosaic. Spock, who knows this ritual now, chooses and kindles a new votive. With deliberate care he places it in the off-center of the grooved rail, next to the light that commemorates our daughter's brief life, and bids his father farewell at last. Sarek, who never lived under this roof, never honored these household gods, will be remembered here for as long as these walls stand. His katra may rest on Vulcan in the hall of ancient thought, but some part of his spirit now dwells in the house of a Romulan.
Circumstances alter cases, Elydex once said. I could never have envisioned a circumstance in which I would honor the memory of Sarek, who caused his family so much pain, who disavowed his role in Lidiya Tilendi's fate, who ridiculed his son's dream of peace and unity. And yet this morning, on the first day of the future, I stand hand in hand with Spock, praying for the repose of Sarek's soul.
Given a miracle of this magnitude, can such a simple event as the mending of broken worlds be all that far behind?
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.